Silence
by Le Chat Noir
Summary: A story of Celebrimbor's childhood, or daily life in Formenos seen through the eyes of a child.
1. Notes

Silence

By Le Chat Noir

- Disclaimer

All characters and settings are copyright to JRRT and the Tolkien Estate. The writing itself belongs to Le Chat Noir, and whomever the chapters were written for. It is appreciated if readers do not use the story for their own purposes before asking nicely first. 

- Notes

A little explanation is needed concerning this story. At first, only the Prologue had been written, under the title of _Children's Play. It was a story for Kazaera's birthday, as she had requested a non-second Age Celebrimbor fic. Then, mainly because of Furius' birthday request, a happy Celebrimbor and/or Fëanor fic that taps on the intrinsic goodness of Elven nature, this evolved into a sort of many-chaptered story focusing on Celebrimbor's childhood, or daily life in Formenos seen through the eyes of a child. Furius' birthday fic consists of the second chapter of this story. Here. Now people who might have been confused because they had read the fic before those changes are not confused anymore. Oh Joy in the Kingdom of God. _

Quick summaries:

Prologue: 

Curufin has taken his young son to meet Sindar Elves for the first time. 

            Part 1:

In the very early days of Formenos, Finwë, a yet relatively sane Fëanor, Curufin and small toddler Celebrimbor share the spotlight. 

            Part 2:

Celebrimbor has nightmares, and Curufin tries to do something about it to help. Appearance from Maedhros. 

            Interlude 1 – Art:

In Nargothrond, a Celebrimbor still at war with his childhood and the Curufin we've all come to know and love/hate… Of Tyelpe's perception of his father. 

Names: 

Sometimes I might choose to use the Quenya names rather than the Sindarin ones, if I feel it is more in accordance with Celebrimbor's "voice".

Kurufinwë Fënaro = Fëanor

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol = Nelyo = Maedhros

Kanafinwë Makalaurë = Kano = Filit = Maglor

Turcafinwë Tyelkormo = Turco = Celegorm

Morifinwë Carnistir = Moryo = Caranthir

Kurufinwë Atarinkë = Kurvo = Curufin

Pityafinwë Ambarussa = Pityo = Amros

Telufinwë Ambarussa = Umbarto = Ambarto = Telvo = Amras

Kurufinwë Tyelperinquar = Kurvo = Tyelpe = Celebrimbor

There is absolutely no canon evidence that Celebrimbor's father-name is Kurufinwë, but how could I resist… 

            ~


	2. Prologue

Silence

For Kazaera

- Prologue

 "Doll!"

A wide smile parted the small girl's face from ear to ear, as her short arms were extended towards him. 

Almost warily, he took the ragged, tattered doll from her chubby fingers, afraid that his clumsy grasp would tear it to shreds. It was a very old doll, and soiled for having been dragged in the dirt for days on end. On any occasion, even the poorest craftsman of the Noldor would not have deigned lower his eyes on the rough, unskilled needlework barely holding the fabric together. Sitting next to the campfire with four or five young children huddled next to him, Celebrimbor handled the threadbare toy with reverence and awe, as if it was the most delicate and fragile treasure elvenkind had ever produced; for it was with a mother's love that these old rags had been sewn together, and it had been the source of a child's joy, and now this child had willingly given him her toy, sharing with him her games and her smile, in a language he did not know. 

As much as Celebrimbor was skillful in handling the most precious metals and breakable gems, he did not know what to do with the doll of a young peasant girl in his hands. All the children had their faces turned towards him in expectation, and he felt a slight blush colouring his face. 

"Doll?" he repeated slowly. 

A round of gleeful laughter broke among the elflings. Apparently, his accent still left a lot to be desired.

Quickly, the small girl snatched the doll back from his large hands, and held it aloft in front of his face. Even as he was seated, she had to stand and reach up for the painted beads that were its eyes to be level with those ink black ones of the other elf; and she launched into a long monolog which the Noldoring youth could not comprehend. The tongue of the Sindar was pleasant to the ear; it flowed back and forth as naturally as the ebb and flow came to caress the blessed shores, where graceful swanships slept. In the surrounding night, the orange fire threw strange, dancing shadows on the children's youthful faces, but the familiar dance did not waken in his heart echoes of another night: it was as if the small girl's distant babble soothed the nightmare in his soul, kept the memories at bay. 

The girl's speech ended. From the tone of her childish voice, Celebrimbor devised that she had asked him a question; however, all that he could do was to shake his head with a feeble smile. 

~ 

"Is he your son, my Lord?" 

The woman had approached him silently, and he was startled by her sudden presence at his side. He had been standing there for a while, watching Tyelpe try to interact with the children, and no one had spoken to him; he had thought himself safe from intrusion hidden in the shadows of tall trees. 

"Yes." He smiled, awaiting the next question that was sure to come with a touch of irritation. 

But for a long while after that, the woman spoke no more, and contended herself with standing at his side. Something about this unrequited and silencious presence made him feel uneasy. 

"The children seem to like him very much," he said at last, hoping to break the silence. 

The woman assented. "Children can feel it." He threw her a glance that confessed his lack of understanding.

Her eyes seemed slightly surprised that he did not understand, but only slightly so. "Children can feel it," she explained slowly, "when pain is in another's heart."

Later, he would do his best to forget, though without quite succeeding, the look he had felt her lay on his impassive face, heavy with commiseration and something akin to pity.

~

The next day, a pair of young boys had seized him by his tunic and made clear that they wanted him to spend the day with them on a walk in the woods. They shoved an empty basket in his hands, and at least Celebrimbor knew what that meant: often, in his childhood, he had snuck away from Formenos' iron doors and run along the indistinct trails in the nearby woods, hoping to happen upon a bush of blackberries. Under the glaring light of the Sun, he savoured again the almost forgotten sensation of the ripe, juicy fruit bursting under the pression of his teeth; and decided that he could not have forgotten it. He remembered sneaking back to his lonely room and pretending that he had never gone out, ignoring the stains of dark violet the seasoned fruits had left upon his hands and shirt. 

At the end of the day, his basket was full, and he thought he had eaten at least twice what he had picked. 

~ 

"Cursed be his name! Cursed to the Outer Void, and all his kind with him, who are no more worthy of faith!" 

Formenos was a great building, but most of what filled it was emptiness. High pillars supported tall ceilings in vast empty rooms, for only a small part of it was really inhabited. In the loneliness of exile, the loneliness of their disproportionate fortress, the seven Sons of Fëanor had, maybe unconsciously, maybe out of an unspoken agreement, all chosen to live in the East Wing, and looked very surprised on the outside when it turned out that all of their rooms gave on the same corridor. They didn't like to be left alone, and six brothers were never gone without the seventh one following close behind. When they spoke, they spoke too loud, and often for trifle things; when they laughed, they laughed too loud, and when they walked, muffled the sound of their footfalls with no great success. 

Celebrimbor stayed by his father's side when the heaviness of the silence became too heartfelt, or spent his time in his great-grandfather's room, listening to ancient stories he did not understand. But sometimes he slipped away and wandered alone through the dark corridors, his heart beating fast for fear of getting lost in his own home; maybe they would never find him, and he would stay forever lost in a labyrinth that his own kin had designed. And when he had been careless enough to let one of his movements create an echo on the fantastic walls, he stood still, suspended his breathing, and waited for the endlessly repeating voice to die out, like a sigh shattering against an abrupt cliff.  

When his grandfather's wrath was kindled, Celebrimbor hid under a staircase, and buried his head in his folded arms. It availed to nothing, because he could still hear the irate shouts, and the silence that was all around. Afterwards, his father came to sit near to him, and held him in his arms, though not a word was said; and the silence that was shared again brought tears to his eyes better than madness and rage ever could. 

~


	3. I

Silence

For Furius

- Part One

Curufin, holding both his little son's arms above the toddler's head, led him back and forth through the great hall, securing the child's first hesitant steps. The ceiling of Formenos' main hall was high, and the four walls wide apart: light as they were, Celebrimbor's clumsy footsteps resounded loudly in the room. The light of Telperion came streaming in from the tall windows, flooding every corner with soft radiance. The child stumbled often, but his father's able hands kept him from falling: every awkward stagger was accompanied by a fit of lively giggles, as Curufin lifted his son high in the air to deposit him again on the ground. Sometimes, the father suspected that the toddler had tripped on purpose, only to feel himself being hauled upwards in such a fashion. Celebrimbor, though a little retarded for his age in that field, could already walk quite well when left alone to himself. 

A touching sight. Fëanor, one hand playing with the circlet he had taken off his brow, sighed with ease, and reclined into the velvet-cushioned armchair. _See how glad they are, he thought, __how glad to be together. We are together now, and nothing can tear us apart. _

Now Curufin was kneeling down in the far end of the hall, his arms wide open, and Celebrimbor gauchely made his way into his father's embrace. 

A slight click to their right alerted them of the door being opened. __

"Curvo." All three looked up. 

"Father." A wide grin spread over Fëanor's face, as Finwë smiled, a little wearily, upon them all. _Nothing can tear us apart._

"Go to him, Tyelpe." Curufin gently pushed his son forwards. Fëanor was slightly disappointed. It was one of his fifth's son's weaknesses, to insist on still using the child's mother-name to address him; though he had to agree that sometimes the name Curufinwë could lead to dreadful confusions. However, the word kept tugging at his heart. Was it not precisely small things like these, which went on digging the gap between them all, preventing them from becoming _as one_? 

With one finger, he traced the smooth outline of the silver wreath. 

The High King of the Noldor knelt to receive his small great-grandson in his arms, and ran a hand on the boy's cheek; it was pale, though flushed pink with joy. The child's eyes shone.

"He looks like you," the king said, lifting his eyes to gaze at his eldest son, a warm smile on his face. "At this age, you were exactly like him." _Both motherless?_ Fëanor thought. _Yes, that makes us alike. He quickly shook the thought away. "Look at him," Finwë went on. "The very portrait of his grandfather… and his father." _

Curufin, now sitting on the ground, laughed. Fëanor shook his head, opened his mouth, but closed it again, and a small smile stirred his lips. 

Wrapped in the King's loving embrace, the small Celebrimbor tilted his face to look up at his great-grandfather. 

"I like your eyes," he said. "They look like the Sea." 

Finwë's smile grew wider, and he placed a light kiss on the boy's forehead.

"And where, my little one, would you have gained knowledge of the Sea's untold guise?" 

Celebrimbor did not answer him directly. "They are the colour of Father's knife."

Curufin stopped smiling. 

"I took him down to the beach some times ago," Fëanor offered in reply to his father's previous query. "A storm was about to break out."

The child's eyes lit up even more, and Finwë was almost upset by their alluring resemblance with the eyes of Fëanor. "I found a seashell! It has the voice of the Ocean trapped in its cage. If I put it near my ear I can hear it sing for me." Then the beam suddenly went out on his face, like a candle extinguished by a breath of wind. "Do you think," he asked in a whisper, "that the Lady is sad to be held in bounds?" __

Finwë shuddered, and closed his arms tighter around his slender frame, though he was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to let go and push the feeble child away.

Then Fëanor was standing over them both, despite the fact that they had not heard him come. 

"It is not her," he explained, kneeling down, "who is caught inside the shell and ensnared in chains, but only the sound of her voice;" the tip of a finger touched the boy's nose, making him squint, "and that for the sole delight of little children like you, who crave to hear her music even when they are away from her house." 

Celebrimbor did not look satisfied by this particular enlightenment, and frowned in a suspicious way. "But can she still sing when her voice is taken away from her?"

Fëanor laughed outright. "Of course she can! When a smith pours his talents and skills into the making of a stone, does that mean that he is unable to make more stones after it, more beautiful than the first?" 

Unnoticed in his corner, still sitting on the ground, Curufin blinked. It had been a long time since his father had spoken like that. Not since the Jewels had been wrought. But then the maker of the Silmarils was no mere smith; he was something more. And his seven sons were never very sure if the radiance of the two Trees was the only thing the Spirit of Fire had trapped into his Gems of Light. 

Celebrimbor seemed like he was going to ask another question, but was prevented from it by Fëanor suddenly swinging him up on his shoulders, making him shriek in terror and delight. Once he had secured the child in that position far above the ground, the High Prince in exile took the finely chiselled circlet that marked his royal heritage from his own head, and placed it upon the child's; being far too large in circumference, the wreath slid from Celebrimbor's brow unto his neck. 

"It suits him, doesn't it?" Fëanor called out to his father. "Doesn't it? I cannot see."

The small child was overcome by fits of laughter. "It's too big!" he managed between two outbursts, and promptly caught the hiccups from having gulped in too much air.

"Do not worry, small one." Fëanor contorted his neck so as to be able to catch a glimpse of his grandson. "If you wish, I will make one for you, that fits you so nicely that you will never wish to take it off."

"But he will soon grow out of it, a new one would have to be made every year," Curufin pointed out. 

"Then so shall it be," Fëanor answered curtly, not allowing him a glance. He knelt again and allowed the child to get off, who uttered faint words of protest. "Curvo deserves it." He ruffled the child's hair with his hand, and took his circlet back. It was the custom for a heir to wear the mark of his birthright only when his own hands would allow him to shape his crown himself; but far from the restraining walls of Tirion the White, what law of the Valar could reach the loneliness of their exile? _And are we not together now, and thereby in need of no stranger's decree? _

Celebrimbor had taken one of Finwë's large hands in both his small ones, and attempted to pull the ancient elf to his feet. 

"Come," he urged him, "I will show you my shell. I keep it in my box of precious things." 

The King and the child were well on their way to Celebrimbor's room through darkened corridors when Fëanor regained his previous position in the chair, and absorbed himself in the contemplation of something known to only him, one hand once more lazily toying with his wreath. 

Still sitting on the cold marble ground, Curufin seemed deeply engrossed in the carving of a pattern on his leather belt, keen eyes zealously following the dance of the dagger on the hide. 

~ 


	4. II

Silence

By Le Chat Noir

- Part Two

He was very careful not to make a sound, but somehow Father would always know. The Silence could always hear, he thought; no matter how quiet and still he willed himself to stay, like one of those pretty white statues he had seen when uncle Russandol had taken him to that place outside he had forgotten had a name, the Silence was always quieter than him, and its eyes that lurked everywhere could always _see. _

He tried to stifle the unwanted sobs in his pillow, however to no avail. 

The room was entirely white. At the time, it was Laurelin that flooded in with her rays the colour of buttercups, and Celebrimbor thought when these touched the coldness of the marble floor they turned to pools of molten gold. 

Maybe it was the Silence that told Father that he was crying, he could not tell. But he would rather that he did not know, because Father was always worried and always tired. However, the Silence kept him awake, and forbade him to let his spirit wander; at once, when he entered the Paths of Dreams, _it_ would be back under the form of all his memories to pull him away from sleep. 

Again, that time, he heard Father stir behind him and sit up in his bed, as was his wont. A pair of strong, though slender arms pulled him into a warm embrace and they both reclined on the bed and he felt lost to be so small lying in the middle of such a big bed. He clung to his father with a death-grip, dug his fingers into his arms, knowing that they were probably the only ones who were awake in the entire building, knowing of the emptiness of the corridors beyond their small secluded room. At times he was not afraid of the loneliness, but when the Silence whispered in his ears he could not care to whom it was he clung, as long as he could feel another's breath next to his, another's flesh against his own. 

Curufin passed soothing fingers through his child's hair, and massaged the boy's back with his other hand, softly singing a lullaby he did not know where he remembered from. After a while, the child's silent sobs died away, and instead he felt the small, lithe frame moving against him. 

Overly bright from tears, a pair of wide, dark eyes stared into his own. 

"Ada, when I sleep, of what should I dream?"

A little perplexed by the strange question, Curufin thought for a while before settling for an answer. 

"The Paths of Dreams are strewn with memories of one's past life. When you are older, dreams will be a way to remember the joyful events of your life, even when dwelling in hapless days; we do not forget, but sleep enables us to relive our times of delight and bliss, and therefore sustain our hopes when hope will be needed." 

Celebrimbor shifted positions again, slightly unnerved that his father did not understand, or rather vaguely knowing that he could understand if thus was his wish, and tears threatened to roll out of his eyes once more, as he tightened his frantic grip on his father's arms. 

"But they are all _the same!" _

Father opened his mouth, and closed it again, and Celebrimbor felt the Silence come between them, like a great shadow, and for a splinter of a second his fear was reflected in Father's pitch-black eyes. Then the elder elf's eyelids dropped, and for a minute he thought that Father had gone to sleep again. But it was not so. 

After a while, Curufin's eyelids fluttered open, and he saw that the darkness was gone from them. 

"Tell me what you'd like to dream of."

Celebrimbor thought. There were many things he would have liked to know, pleasant things that he would have kept as precious memories to dwell upon, but not too often, for fear of wearing them out with the number of times he relived them in his heart. There were some things he had seen in his life, rare things, images he held onto for the impression of beauty of serenity he had sensed veiled up in his heart when he saw them: the small birds that came on his windowsill,  the elegant statues which he remembered but could not tell from where anymore, his great-grandfather's eyes, uncle Russandol's hair, and the frenzied dances of the flames when a fire was lit in the great hearth of the Hall; however, none of them had been powerful enough for him to wield against the voice of the Silence, to forget the weight of those walls of steel, closing around him. 

"I want of dream of a mother."

Father blinked, but did not show other signs of surprise. He smiled a little sorry smile, and looked away. 

Celebrimbor noticed his cheeks colouring slightly, and dimly regretted his unreasonable demand. 

"I fear, little one, that this I am not able to give you." And there was the seeking of forgiveness in Father's eyes, something that he so rarely saw that it was all he could do to throw himself at his neck. He had closed his eyes at first, but upon hearing the Silence laugh lightly near his ear they started open and he shuddered, tightening his arms even further around his father's body. 

He smiled weakly. "Great-grandfather says that he does not have a mother either, and when I ask him why he says that he never did, and that the Elves in their awakening had called the Earth the Mother of them all, who gave them food in her fruits and shelter in her trees." He paused for a moment, and pretended to catch his breath, hesitating slightly before continuing to speak. "But Grandfather never knew his mother either," he hazarded. 

Celebrimbor wondered if Father had a mother. But if Father had a mother then she would be uncle Russandol's mother too, and uncle Kano's, and Turco and Moryo and Ambarussa's also. Surely they could not all be motherless? Maybe they had not known her either, maybe she had departed as well and left them all alone, like the Lady Miriel had. However nobody ever spoke of her, and he did not know even her name. 

He was pulled out of his reflections by his father's deep sigh, and thought that maybe he had said something wrong. 

Curufin looked at his son, and idly played with a strand of his hair; though he was not exactly sure at the moment to whom it really belonged, as both their shares of dark locks were spread out on the bed sheets around their heads, and came to be mingled together as one.  The boy was five years old; his great dark eyes mirrors of his own, yet full of many questions that would not be answered. Already at that young age, sometimes the child's uncommonly _intense_ gaze was unsettling to bear, and many had turned away from its unknowing depths. To him, it brought back images of earlier days, that he would rather have stifled before they smothered him. But the child was young, he considered. Chances were, that he would never even remember those early days in Formenos, save for fleeting sensations he would later wonder at for their origins.

Father looked away, and sat up on the bed. 

"Come," he said, already engaged in the process of divesting himself of his nightshirt and pulling on a practical tunic. 

Celebrimbor sat up too, startled at the sudden absence of warmth at his side, but didn't move further, observing Father's actions with a little wariness. The latter, by now completely dressed, stood in front of the great wardrobe, the panes of which he had thrown wide open, with a contemplative look on his face. He threw his son a glance. 

"You don't have any travelling clothes." 

The child shook his head, incredulity in his eyes. Of course, Curufin thought, those should never have been necessary. 

"Don't make so much noise, Father," he said, worried though he did not know why.

"Here, wear these," Curufin offered, taking a set of rather more common garments from the pile, and handed them over to Celebrimbor. 

He sat there unmoving, blankly staring at the clothes in his lap. Father, maybe a little worried, looked out the window, and a slight crease barred his forehead.

"The time of the Mingling is nigh. Make haste!" Father did not seem inclined to leaving him alone in the bare and silent room, and for that he felt grateful, so he made haste indeed; lest Father should change his mind. 

He was glad, because Father had for a moment made the fear and the silence go away; but reflected that it was strange, for Fëanor's fifth son had not seemed so moved about something for a long time. 

~  

He knocked on the door of iron several times, anxious to be heard only by the occupier of the room. Everyone slept still in the great fortress of steel, and every sound he made, from soft footfalls to shy intakes of breath, sounded to him as if echoed a thousand times louder on the thick grey walls. If Russandol did not hear him, he would have to leave without telling his brothers of his destination, and they might truly worry; he knew that if his father might not think of the right place to go look for him, busy as he would be at raging at his sons and tuning down fits of silent anguish, surely one of his brothers would, and he would be found out. 

He lifted his hand to gently rap on the door again, but before his knuckles could touch the cold iron it was pulled open, and the face of a not-nearly-awake Maedhros appeared in the opening. 

"What?"

Then the red-headed elf seemed to register the full-clothedness of his brother, and the strange spark in his eyes. 

"Where are you going?" he hissed, immediately wide awake and aghast at Pityanarë's boldness. "Father will have our heads for this!"

Curufin ignored his protests. 

"I am simply going to give Tyelpe a mother." 

Maedhros rolled his eyes, but the expression on his face softened. "That is good, but let me repeat myself: Father will have our heads for this!"

"No he won't. Father will understand, of all people." 

A staring contest ensued, but when Maedhros had made sure that his younger brother was determined to carry his project out, he sighed, and shook his head. 

"Do you need anything I can do for you?" 

Curufin smiled. "No, I took care of everything. Just tell our brothers, so that they do not worry too much. I know Kano just will." 

He paused, and turned as if to walk away, but stayed his feet. 

"You don't need to tell Father that you know I have left," he finally added. "I'll deal with him when I come back."

And then he was gone.

Maedhros shrugged, and closed the door behind him. 

Strange. 

For a moment, it had almost seemed like his little brother was happy again, as he had been before Father had… well, before. 

~ 

They had ridden for a long time, and Celebrimbor, tired out, had fallen asleep where he sat in front of his father, secured by the latter's arms. 

When they had finally arrived, Curufin had wondered for a while if he should wake the child up, but had decided against it, knowing that it had been long since Tyelpe had slept without being troubled by ill-dreams. Instead, they were both now seated on the grass, his back resting against a tree trunk, the boy's head in his lap. From where they were, they could not be seen from the house that stood some distance away, and neither could he see it. It was, he thought, more sensible. 

When Celebrimbor woke, they moved a little way down the path, and Father, kneeling down beside him, gestured to the house they could now see.

"This is the house in which you were born," he said.

Celebrimbor felt in awe the fresh grass under his feet, the light caress of the breeze on his skin, the fragrant scent of the flowers in his nostrils, and hoped to engrave the moment forever in his memory. 

"Is my mother in there?" 

"Her name is Vyriel," was the answer he received. [1]

Still hesitant and sceptic, he stared at Father's eyes long and hard to fathom if he was really telling the truth. 

"Can I…" 

Father smiled slightly, and gave him a slight push forwards. 

Steadily, he walked on, being sure to feel the ground under his feet to ascertain that it was not a nightmare in disguise. 

Curufin stood up. _Well, he thought, _I do hope she's in at least._ _

He didn't know how long it would take the child to forget these settings, his mother's face and voice, this visit even. But no one remembered a person whom they had met only once at the age of five, and he wondered how little his son would succeed in keeping of that day in the end. [2] At least the impression of happiness the boy would experience would be enough to last, he hoped. 

A smirk touched his lips. _Ah well, if after all that Formenos is still not left to sleep in peace… _

~ 

1 – Vyriel is the name of Curufin's wife from the Silmfics ML's RoundRobin, Quenta Nàrion, which can be found on this site. I have forgotten whom exactly to thank for that name. 

2 – In my little world where these characters live, the only thing Celebrimbor remembers of his mother is 'her voice, and he doesn't know if it is even really hers.' It has been mentioned in one of my previous stories, I think.


	5. Interlude I : Art

_« Il n'existe que trois êtres respectables : le prêtre, le guerrier, le poète. Savoir, tuer et créer. »_

- _Baudelaire_

_~  _

Silence

By Le Chat Noir

- Interlude One: Art

"One day, my son, I swear you are going to suffocate in this place."

Even through the thunderous sound of the blows from his hammer and the deafening roar of the fire, Celebrimbor had perceived the slight click the forge's door made when being pushed open, and recognised the soft, muted footfalls that trod on the hard ground of the smithy. He made a subtle show of being too engrossed in his works to have heard, hoping that Curufin was not yet too far gone to understand his need not to be interrupted, and at first, unbelieving, thought that he had succeeded; the other elf had, after some idle wandering around the place, fingering the tools and laying a criticizing eye on the workmanship of various objects left there in wait for a final touch, gone to seat himself on one of the various benches that cluttered up the workshop. Those benches were actually one of Nargothrond's artisans' complaints of choice: often, a newcomer to the forge yet unfamiliar with its complex geography would prove to be a tad too distracted by the completion of his works and rush about heedless of those pieces of furniture, and eventually end up face down on the ground with very little idea of exactly what had just happened to him. However, no one had yet taken up the task of properly rearranging the place, and the elder smiths were rather hostile to the project, who already knew the room by heart and loved it as it was, along with the pleasant memories of previous achievements it brought. 

From time to times, he snuck a peek at the other, to find the latter lazily staring at him work with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. 

"You work too much," he had once said. "You wear your hands out and weary your body, with the touch of fire and the breath of fire; one day you'll become as bent and twisted as that Moriquendi come from the dark forests." [1] 

And that night, Celebrimbor had hardly kept from weeping for his father, and only hardened his resolve to make the smithy his asylum, the fire's roar against untruthful words. 

Curufin had dropped by the forges often lately, even more so after that Felagund had gone forth from the gates, though his visits were quite pointless in Celebrimbor's eyes. The son of Fëanor generally found things to say, small pretexts for which to cross the threshold of the heavy doors or simply lean upon the window-frames and let his gaze wander vaguely inside the smithy. These intrusions used to upset Celebrimbor greatly, for some reason he could not quite grasp; and he wondered why his father insisted on visiting him when it was made so clear that his presence was not welcomed.

"Upsetting your last sanctuary?" Orodreth had offered, on one of the now rare and precious moments when they could meet as mere friends, but Celebrimbor had shaken his head and said that he thought it not so.  

He bent closer to the worktable, and frowned at the artful chiselling the pendant he was shaping required. 

It was a pendant made of gold, a material he preferred to work with despite the supposedly prophetic name his mother had bestowed upon him as a child. Gold was one emblem of his grandfather's house; and maybe the thoughtless _nis__ [2] had in some way willed to mark a point by naming him the __Silver-fist, but he believed that she had not known his heart as he had not known her at all. _

A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows that seemed largely out of place among his fair features, as somehow disturbed by his straying thoughts his chisel had slightly –oh so slightly- slipped in its meticulous trajectory upon the metal. At that, a moment's hesitation stayed his hand: to begin entirely anew or try to conceal the unnoticeable mistake with an altered design? 

"No. It is only those who come from the outside who are shocked by the heat."

Curufin looked almost startled out of his reverie by his son's abrupt reply, and that fact which he acknowledged out of the corner of his eye annoyed Celebrimbor intensely, though again he was unable to pin the exact reason behind his irritation. 

"Speaking from outside," Curufin promptly regained his usual composure. 

"No." 

"Why not?" The older elf lifted a thin eyebrow. "The winter is gone. One would almost believe you preferred this beastly roar and heat to the mellow songbirds of spring."

And in his heart Celebrimbor answered, though he refrained from voicing his comments aloud, and even letting any hint of them show on his countenance. 

What if? 

The nightingales' songs are artful and pleasing to the ear, but there is no passion to fill their charming frame. He would trust only the singing swan and the roaring hearth, and the raving madman's words; at least they do not lie from the depths of their fever. 

"It has been long since the people of Nargothrond have seen you clad in the lordly way that belongs with your name; you always appear to them wrapped in this apron of yours and with coal all over your face."

It is not to become like you, Father. I know I look like you, and my eyes are like yours, my hands like yours; but let me hope that the soul behind those eyes and the gift behind those hands will not become as yours. This bearing is mine, and I find my joy in this common guise; for your robes of silks and velvet are not a masquerade in which I wish to take a part. How has it come to pass that the son of Fëanor, the most skilled and loved, has now to invent worldly pretexts to excuse himself for entering the forges? Your hands take up the heavy tools, and still you are expert and able in their handling, but gifted no more. You have perpetrated the most terrible of crimes, to still the counsels of your heart; to forget, force yourself into forgetting that you remain yet an artist. For it is your nature as such which you have thereby denied, by twisting your gift for words and beauty to create lies instead of truth. 

"Is it the sun that offends your eye, accustomed to the darkness of your surroundings? No matter, most of the City is well sheltered from the daylight, and even outside the forests are lush and scarce can sunrays pierce their shield. Have you not been owing your young friend Orodreth a visit for a while?"

I do not listen. 

Those words you speak are no more than words to fill the Void you've wrought yourself, spoken though nothing is said. 

"Come with me, we will walk together."

He thought that maybe he would be able to manage concealing the small flaw of his carving by bringing an utter change into the outline he had originally intended, but he was not sure. It should not prove to be too arduous of a task. 

A hammer had however found its way into his other hand. Would he tolerate this imperfection, and weave it into the shape as if something of his design, overlooking the first inspiration of his heart? Would he take it as a slight to his pride as a crafter, a sign of weariness and apathy, that long hours of toil could not be sacrificed to a whim of his art? 

His heart wavered as his gaze shifted between one hand and the other. 

"Maybe."

A cold draught of air caught him square in the face, and he looked up in surprise. 

Quietly, without his son noticing, Curufin had slipped out of the smithy during the long silence that had passed between them, leaving the doors hanging wide open. 

Celebrimbor remained staring at the opening for a while, then cursed; and his hammer came down upon the yet malleable gold. 

"You work too much," he had once said. "You wear your hands out and weary your body, with the touch of fire and the breath of fire; one day you'll become as bent and twisted as that Moriquendi come from the dark forests." 

That night, Celebrimbor had hardly kept from weeping for his father, and only hardened his resolve to make the smithy his asylum, the fire's roar against untruthful words, a dam to searing flames.

~ 

1 – Eöl, who happens on Curufin when he crosses Himlad in the wake of Aredhel and Maeglin. 

2 – nis = she-elf


End file.
